‘Oh! No, not really. I used to have quite long hair.’
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘But I got fed up with it. I saw a film…’ Flora decided not to mention the title. ‘The actress had very short hair - and I liked it. So I got my brother to cut all my hair off. But I don’t think he made a very good job of it. Looks terrible, doesn’t it?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘My mother says I look like a boy.’
‘No, not at all! I think it looks rather… chic,’ Hugh said, savouring the foreign word.
The large blue eyes widened. ‘Do you? Do you really? Thank you!’
Hugh had only a vague understanding of the word chic, but he saw that his intended compliment had hit home and was pleased he’d been able to reassure this troubled girl. It was, after all, hardly appropriate for him as her minister to point out that she was so utterly disarming in her manner, so ravishingly pretty, that it scarcely mattered what she did with her hair.
Chapter 4
1959
Despite her many blessings of youth, beauty and a handsome husband, Miriam Wentworth didn’t appear to be happy. Within a year of moving into the spacious but gloomy vicarage she’d lost her bloom and rarely smiled. Instead she arranged her features to suggest a professional cheerfulness, the kind expected of clergy wives, whatever their personal circumstances.
Miss Thompson felt sure that Mrs Wentworth’s discontent was caused by having to watch other women’s babies being baptised at the font every month, ‘And her with all those empty bedrooms up at the vicarage’. Miss Cartwright narrowed her eyes and declared that she thought there was more to it than that, but wouldn’t be drawn into hypothesis.
For reasons not entirely clear to her, Ettie observed Mrs Wentworth closely and noticed she occasionally looked red-eyed, as if she’d slept badly. Those eyes were restless too, moving round the congregation, avoiding contact with parishioners. Ettie noted too that Mrs Wentworth’s eyes rarely settled on her husband, even - and this surprised Ettie - during the sermon. Instead, Miriam Wentworth would look down at the prayer book clasped in her hands, her face impassive.
Suitably hatted and gloved for a formal visit to a minister, Dora sallied forth to the vicarage for what she feared might be a difficult interview. As a precaution she’d selected one of her older, larger handbags for moral support and had applied an authoritative shade of red to lips that seemed nowadays to be pinched in permanent disapproval of her teenage daughter.
The front door was opened by Mrs Wentworth in an apron, clutching a potato-peeler. She looked harassed and a little dishevelled, lifting a damp hand to pat an errant lock of hair into place. She ushered Dora in, avoiding her eye and began to speak in a monotone.
‘Mrs Dunbar, how do you do? Do come in. Hugh’s in the study working on his sermon. Let me take your coat for you. It’s a little chilly today, isn’t it? But much better than yesterday. Would you like some tea? Or perhaps you’d prefer coffee?’
As she listened to this mechanical recitation of pleasantries, Dora decided she’d heard more animation issuing from an I speak your weight machine. She requested tea and hoped she wasn’t disturbing the vicar. ‘I did telephone earlier to make an appointment.’
‘Oh, yes, he’s expecting you,’ Mrs Wentworth replied listlessly. She opened a door and, without looking in, announced, ‘Mrs Dunbar to see you, Hugh. I’ll bring some tea.’
The phone rang. Mrs Wentworth froze and then said wearily, ‘I’ll bring it as soon as I can.’ She hurried down the hall where she picked up the telephone and began another litany of platitudes.
Hugh was already on his feet, looming over Dora and shaking her hand firmly. Dora was taken aback and by more than his height. Flora had neglected to mention that the minister was both young and handsome. As Dora adjusted her prejudices along with the handbag on her arm, it occurred to her that as Hugh was twice Flora’s age, he wouldn’t seem young to her and therefore couldn’t possibly appear handsome. Dora, now into her fifties, was old enough - and still young enough - to appreciate attention from a younger man, particularly one with a dazzling smile. She began to relax a little.
‘Mrs Dunbar, do come in and take a seat. I’m pleased to meet you at last. Flora has told me so much about her family.’
‘A lot of it uncomplimentary, I’m sure,’ Dora said smiling.
‘No, not at all! I think Flora realises that her unsettled state of mind is creating difficulties for everyone, not just her.’
Dora clutched her handbag on her lap. ‘Reverend Wentworth, I’ll come straight to the point as I know you are a very busy man. You are - as I’m sure you’re aware - in a position of some influence over my daughter.’
‘Yes, and I take that responsibility very seriously.’
‘I’m sure you do. But I’m concerned whether or not there might be a conflict of interests.’ She hesitated. ‘Oh dear, this is all very difficult…’
‘Please take your time, Mrs Dunbar. And speak freely. I’m sure Miriam will bring us some tea soon,’ he said doubtfully, cocking his head to listen. The sing-song soliloquy still echoed down the corridor.
Dora took a deep breath. ‘Whilst I’m not a churchgoer, Reverend Wentworth, I am a believer - of sorts. My husband is a rabid atheist and it would incense him if I followed my inclinations, which would be to attend church with Flora and Ettie now and again. When Flora started to develop her religious enthusiasm I was pleased in a way. I thought it a healthier way to spend her time than hanging around in coffee bars, wasting her pocket-money on the juke-box. Flora is a dear child, but she’s grown up in a rather strange way, I’m afraid, trying to be like her brother. They are twins,’ Dora explained, ‘and absolutely devoted to each other.’
‘Yes, Flora has told me a lot about Rory. I’m under the impression that he’s not just her brother but also her closest friend?’
‘Undoubtedly. But I’m not sure a seventeen-year-old girl should have a seventeen-year-old boy as a best friend - particularly not one like Rory! He’s a law unto himself,’ Dora muttered in an undertone.
Hugh smiled amiably and said, ‘I’d very much like to meet Rory. I gather he’s a gifted musician?’
‘Oh, yes. He has his heart set on playing the piano professionally and he’ll be going to music college. Which is partly why Flora wants to go to drama school, I think. She won’t have Rory stealing all the limelight. She does have some theatrical talent - she was a charming Titania in the school play - and her English teacher speaks highly of her ability. She’s very pretty of course, so I don’t doubt she has the makings of an actress, but whether she does or no, I wish to encourage the idea because the alternative…’ Dora clicked open her handbag and plunged a hand into its depths in search of a handkerchief. ‘The alternative would appear to be entering a convent.’ She dabbed at her eyes. ‘I’m here to ask you, Reverend Wentworth, if you would please do your best to dissuade Flora from this idea. I’m hoping that your judgement and experience in these matters will have convinced you that she has no sense of vocation, no natural bent towards the contemplative life. On the contrary,’ Dora said with feeling, ‘she is temperamental, self-centred and argumentative! And horribly spoiled,’ she added with a warm smile. ‘In short, Flora would make a dreadful nun.’
Hugh, who had listened to this long speech with his head bowed in thought, looked up at last. ‘You will be relieved to hear, Mrs Dunbar, that I’d already come to much the same conclusion myself.’
‘Oh…’ Dora relaxed her bulldog grip on her handbag. ‘Oh, I’m so glad!’
‘I’ve said nothing of the sort to Flora, of course. Instead I’ve been regaling her with anecdotes about my own experience as a monk and the difficulties of the cloistered life. I’ve tended to dwell on the lack of physical comforts, the simplicity of the food, the hard discipline of many hours of daily prayer.’ The corners of his mouth twitched. ‘I’m ashamed to say I’ve quite neglected to tell Flora anything at all about the spiritual rewards o
f such a life… May God forgive me,’ he added, with a smile Dora thought nothing short of roguish.
‘Oh, bless you!’
‘I thought it best to treat Flora’s soul-searching with the utmost seriousness. She deserves no less. At the bottom of it all lies a sincere wish to be a good person, a good Christian, and that’s to be applauded and encouraged. I think Flora is aware how problematic her behaviour is for her family. She is full of the best intentions, I can assure you.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Dora. ‘The intentions are there. But as my father used to say to me - when I was much the same age, as a matter of fact! - the road to Hell is paved with good intentions.’
My mother abdicated responsibility to Hugh for saving me from a life of poverty, chastity and obedience. In this he was entirely successful, though Hugh’s diversionary tactics turned out to be rather more radical than Dora had envisaged.
Dora and Hugh became great friends, much to my annoyance. She started going to church now and again, I think to show her gratitude. (To Hugh, not God.) I even suspected her of flirting with him. They shared a passionate interest in gardening and swapped cuttings and seeds. The exchange of horticultural catalogues generated such excitement in the pair of them, you’d have thought they were sharing pornography. Aged seventeen, I found their alliance incomprehensible and embarrassing. I was also jealous, so I took myself off to drama school in London where I hoped I would become the centre of attention.
1960
‘Flora, darling, we can’t hear you.’
The disembodied male voice rang out from the back of the stalls. In the silence that followed Flora looked up and stared blindly into the darkness, a hand raised to her eyes, shielding them from the bright lights.
‘Oh. Sorry.’
The voice approached down the centre aisle of the tiny theatre and slapped a clipboard down on the front of the stage. Clipboard and voice belonged to an elegant young man dressed in a corduroy suit, silk shirt and flamboyant cravat fastened with a diamond pin given to him, it was said, by Gielgud. Toby Tavistock leaned on the stage, folded his expressive hands into a cat’s cradle of digits and assumed what senior students referred to as his ‘patience on a monument’ look.
‘Flora, sweetheart, I know you’re meant to be raving mad, but don’t you think the audience ought to be able to hear the words of the immortal Bard? After all, Hamlet is generally considered to be his greatest play - probably the greatest play in the English language.’ Toby put his head on one side and arranged his mobile face in a travesty of a smile. ‘So, ar-tic-u-late, darling.’ He tapped his propelling pencil on the clipboard. ‘Remember: eyes, tits and teeth and sock it to the gallery. That’s all there is to it.’ He broadened his gaze to include the rest of the assembled company who stood, motionless and attentive, in Tudor tableau. ‘Can’t imagine why we have to spend two whole years drumming the basics into you lot. It’s all so bloody obvious.’ He yawned, then with a sudden spasm of facial muscles, the smile was displayed again. ‘Can we run it again, please, everybody? From the top, Act Four, scene five. And Flora…’
She spun round, startled, her legs unsteady beneath her thin white shift. Toby ascended the small flight of wooden stairs that led up on to the stage. ‘Don’t look so terrified, duckie! I’m not going to bite your head off - well, not if you do as I say.’ He put his arm round Flora’s narrow shoulders and drew her to one side of the stage. ‘Look, sweetie,’ he said, speaking in an intense whisper. ‘It’s all perfectly lovely, but could you possibly sing a little more… lasciviously?’
Flora didn’t know what this polysyllable meant. Playing for time, she adjusted her coronet of artificial daisies, then said, ‘Yes, of course.’ She smiled in what she hoped was an accommodating way.
‘Good girl! You see Ophelia has lost her mind. And she’s lost it because…’ Toby patted Flora’s tummy in an explanatory way. ‘She’s up the spout.’
Flora gazed at him blankly, her eyes dull with exhaustion.
He persisted. ‘She’s got a bun in the oven…’
Shivering, Flora wondered how many hours it was since she’d last eaten.
‘…And that bun is Hamlet’s.’
At least four. Possibly five.
‘And now she’s taken refuge in madness. But you see, her madness is a manifestation - pre-Freud, of course! - of her troubled psyche, of her guilt and frustrated libido.’ Behind Toby’s gesticulating figure, Flora saw the student playing Laertes produce half a squashed Mars Bar from his doublet and swallow it whole. Toby, who appeared to be waiting for a response, sighed and took Flora’s hand. ‘She’s singing dirty songs, darling, because she’s damaged goods. So could you sing less… beautifully? She’s not auditioning for the Elsinore Christmas panto.’
Flora heard sniggers behind her back and thought perhaps she was meant to laugh, so she obliged. ‘I’ll certainly try,’ she added gamely.
‘Thank you, sweetheart. Appreciate it.’ Toby patted her on the cheek and turned away, clapping his hands. ‘Places everybody, chop, chop. May I remind you, ladies and gentlemen, that the curtain rises in three hours. This rehearsal was meant to be a run-through not a stagger-through.’ He descended the stairs at a trot and the blackness of the stalls enveloped him once again.
The ensuing scene - tragic in every sense - became the stuff of legend within the walls of that institution. Flora’s fellow students had been unprepared for her to enter with a jersey hastily bundled under her shift, her belly thrust forward as if in the final stages of pregnancy. They were caught unawares by her improvised leers and lavatorial giggles. Laertes was unmanned by a nudge in the ribs followed by a hearty slap on his buttocks. Gertrude’s tears of grief turned to tears of laughter and had to be stifled in the folds of her embroidered handkerchief. As Flora sidled towards the King, making lewd gestures with a bunch of drooping daffodils, the student actor’s look of dread was genuine. These movements hadn’t been rehearsed. His worst fears were confirmed as Flora climbed on to his knee, put an arm round his neck and began to sing tunelessly into his ear while toying with his cod-piece.
Toby would have stopped the scene sooner had he too not been helpless with silent laughter, laughter that abated only when he reflected that this was a final dress rehearsal and the paying public would shortly attend. Undoubtedly the wretched girl had a bent for comedy, but what imbecile had ever thought this dim but endearing little blonde was the stuff of tragedy?
Flora was hiding in her grave. The rest of the company were eating sandwiches and drinking cups of tea in the Green Room, but after the brief notes session with Toby, she’d fled to the only place she could think of where she might be alone, since even the peace of the girls’ toilets had been disturbed by a steady traffic of female students, jittery with nerves, loud with high spirits and the pressing problem of how best to pee in a farthingale.
Flora had gone backstage in search of the coffin-like structure that formed Ophelia’s grave in Act V. She climbed in, set Yorick’s skull carefully to one side with the Gravediggers’ shovels and abandoned herself to the luxury of tears.
She had failed.
She’d failed but she didn’t understand how or why. She’d done what Toby asked (and everyone agreed that she hadn’t misunderstood his direction) but nevertheless the entire company had laughed at her and Toby had forbidden her to incorporate any of the new elements into her performance. He had patted her yet again, said it had been ‘a very interesting experiment’, that laughter had been just what everyone needed. Even Dinah the wardrobe mistress, whom Flora adored and who could always be relied upon to furnish downcast students with a mug of tea and a chocolate digestive, had said a disastrous dress rehearsal was a good omen. ‘The worse the dress, love, the better the first night. Always the way!’ Flora had found this no consolation at all. Depressed, she’d declined the proffered biscuit tin.
Weeping in her surrogate grave, wishing she were in fact dead, Flora didn’t notice a dark figure approach, eerie in the blue backstage light.
A gentle knock on the wooden wall silenced her. She held her breath.
‘Flora? Is that you in there?’
‘Jack?’
‘What on earth are you doing? I came to look for you. Some of the girls were worried.’
Jack’s face hovered, moon-like, above black velvet. He made a splendid Dane and Flora was half in love with him even before he’d donned his sombre costume. Thin and sensitive, Jack alone of all the boys in her year treated Flora with respect and took her acting ambitions seriously. Jack kept his hands to himself and was more interested in talking to Flora than removing her clothes. Having a chat with Jack didn’t turn into a wrestling match. The other girls teased him and so did some of the boys. Flora heard one of them describing Jack as ‘queer’ but she didn’t think he was all that strange, just different from the others. She liked him all the more for it. Flora felt safe with Jack and although she believed herself to be a little in love with him, she also felt sisterly towards him, as if he were more like a big brother than a potential boyfriend. Flora liked their relationship. It was straightforward and comforting. She’d passed an idle moment wondering if she would rather have Jack for a brother or a boyfriend. He would certainly have made a much nicer brother than Rory. For a start he was kind to her. And he loved Shakespeare. What more could one want in a man?
‘You should go and eat something, Flora.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘You should still eat. Can’t do a show on an empty stomach.’
‘You sound like Dinah.’
‘Well, she’s right. Is it nerves?’
‘No. Not really. I mean, I am nervous, but… No, it’s not that.’
‘Was it everyone laughing?’ Flora chewed her lip and nodded. ‘Thought so. You know, people only laughed because they were… surprised.’
‘You weren’t there.’
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